


Hickey

by yeaka



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: M/M, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-06
Updated: 2020-08-06
Packaged: 2021-03-05 21:20:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25741978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Gavin hates Connor and Hank having Connor.
Relationships: Hank Anderson/Connor
Comments: 12
Kudos: 103





	Hickey

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own Detroit: Become Human or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

Mornings are miserable, but Gavin drags himself into work on time anyway, because he’ll be damned if he sinks to Anderson’s level. He shows up, flips through his computer, absorbs the day’s caseload, and stares at the side of Connor’s aggravatingly symmetrical face whilst pondering how much it would cost to get a hacker to tweak Connor’s program. Not drastically, of course. It’d have to be small enough for him to get away with it. Connor would still have to be an insufferable dipshit so as not to arouse suspicion. But if he could just be reprogrammed to make Gavin coffee, he wouldn’t be _so_ unbearable. A few side protocols on sucking Gavin’s dick wouldn’t go amiss either. Not that Gavin would ask for that. He’d just be okay if it happened.

Connor looks over at him once and doesn’t even have the decency to smile anymore. He used to. He used to offer his hand to shake and throw Gavin friendly greetings, _trying_ to get along with his human counterpart. But somewhere along the line, he seems to have gotten it through his thick, plastic skull that Gavin’s not interested in being friends. 

Gavin sneers, and Connor blankly turns back to his computer, watching the screen whir rapidly while the desk adjacent to him remains glaringly unoccupied. 

Somewhere around noon, Anderson stumbles in, and Gavin heads for the break room before the urge to throw his desk chair at Anderson’s head gets too strong. It’s _not fair._ Gavin’s three times the cop that Anderson is, and _he_ doesn’t get a personal pet/coffee-maker/fucktoy. Not that he’d want an android partner. But he should at least be _asked_.

He makes his own coffee, because Connor’s nothing but a pretty piece of garbage that won’t make Gavin’s coffee for him. The existing machine does most of the work, but Gavin’s still bitter as he plops down at the empty table and glares at nothing in particular. 

A few minutes later, while Gavin’s still suckling his coffee and avoiding going back to his desk, Connor wanders in. He parks himself in front of the machine. Androids don’t drink. A horrible surge of jealous fury ripples through Gavin’s body as he realizes that _Connor’s making Anderson coffee._

Gavin stares at the back of Connor’s unreasonably cute head and wonders if he could get away with dumping the rest of his cup over that cute head.

Connor shifts as he moves Anderson’s mug under the tap. The change in angle along his broad shoulders is just enough to jostle the stiff collar of his jacket aside, and a flush of pink catches Gavin’s eye. 

He stares. 

Then he pushes out of his chair and marches over, leaning in for a better look—there’s a red mark on Connor’s neck. 

Not so perfect after all. He didn’t know androids could even bruise, but it gives him some hope. Maybe Connor’s not some indestructible movie trope. Make Gavin could pull him out to the parking lot and go one on one with him sometime. 

Maybe sensing Gavin’s breath on the back of his neck, Connor turns enough for them to lock eyes. Heat fills Gavin’s cheeks, but he fights to keep the reaction down. He mutters like it’s any excuse for being _this_ close to Connor’s sculpted backside, “You got a mark on your neck.”

Connor blinks, and somehow, actually manages to look surprised. Then his skin colour crawls across the bruise, and the mark melts away before Gavin’s very eyes. 

Before Gavin can ask what the hell just happened, Anderson appears out of nowhere. He yawns like a bear and thrusts his arm out, like he expects Connor to put the drink right in his hand, maybe help him drink it, maybe get down on both knees and massage his feet. Gavin’s blood _boils_. Connor turns to fetch Anderson’s coffee, and as the yawn dies off, Anderson frowns. 

He asks Connor, “What happened to your neck?”

“If you mean the mark you left, I healed it over,” Connor hums over the whine of the machine, before casually collecting the steaming mug. He hands it to Anderson and smoothly finishes, “Apparently, it showed above my collar. We’ll have to have a discussion on the appropriate placement of such marks.”

Gavin’s seeing red. Anderson snorts, “That’s the point, idiot.” He shakes his head, yawns again, and mumbles, “Whatever. I’ll give you a new one later. C’mon.” Then he turns and meanders back to his desk. Connor obediently follows like a poodle on a leash. 

Gavin loathes them both and returns to sulking over now-cold coffee.


End file.
